The door to Rathbourne’s study was thrown open with an ear-splitting clatter, and the Earl raised his besotted head from his desk and groaned his displeasure. One eye opened wearily as he heard the muffled treads on the rug as they crossed the room to the window, and in the next instant the heavy damask curtains were thrown wide to allow a blinding glare to penetrate to his bleary gaze.
“Beecham! What the devil do you think you’re about? Close those curtains at once, d’you hear?” Then on a more plaintive note, “Can’t a man be allowed to drown his sorrows in peace?”
The firm tread of the butler approached his lordship’s desk. “I beg your pardon, my lord,” intoned Beecham with exaggerated gravity. “Had I known you were here, I should not have intruded.” He sniffed and bent to retrieve the two empty brandy bottles that were rolling at Rathbourne’s feet.
The Earl decided that that was one lie it was wiser to let pass. “Since you’re here, you may send John to me with another bottle,” he said, striving to keep the slur from his speech.
“John, your lordship?” queried the butler.
Rathbourne frowned. Was the man drunk or something? “You heard me, Beecham—John, the first footman.”
Beecham raised his eyes to the ceiling, a gesture which was lost on the Earl since his head was again cradled in his arms. “The first footman’s name is Jeremiah,” said Beecham reasonably.
The Earl’s head lifted and his bloodshot eyes regarded the stoic butler in mild perplexity. “What d’you mean the first footman’s name is Jeremiah? The first footman’s name in Belmont has always been John, just as the second footman’s name has always been James, and the third footman’s name, Charles. It’s been like that for generations.”
“Nevertheless, my lord, the first footman’s name is Jeremiah, the second footman’s name is Obadiah, and the third footman’s name is Bartholomew.”
The Earl’s shoulders straightened and he bent a sinister look from under black, slanting brows at his impassive butler. “Oh?” he said with deceptive mildness, “and whose idea was it, may I ask, to permit the footmen to revert to their given names?” He could smell insurrection here, and he meant to put a stop to it before the infection spread.
“It was her ladyship’s doing, your lordship. She thought that the custom at Belmont of naming the footmen and maids for convenience was…barbaric.”
“To which ladyship are we referring, Beecham?”
“To Miss Deirdre, sir.”
The Earl’s brows elevated at this familiarity. “Miss Deirdre?” he queried in arctic accents.
“Yes sir. She asked me to address her as such to distinguish her from the other Lady Rathbourne, your mother.”
Rathbourne’s lips thinned. “And do you tell me, Beecham, that ‘Miss Deirdre,’” he emphasized, “addresses the respective footmen as Jeremiah, Obadiah, and Bartholomew? Good God, what a mouthful!”
The butler’s lips were as thin as the Earl’s. “Oh, no, my lord. She calls Jeremiah, Jerry, Obadiah is Obi, and—”
“Don’t tell me,” interrupted the Earl with a devilish smile, “Bartholomew is Bart.”
“Quite so, sir.”
“And what handle, pray, does Miss Deirdre give to you?”
“Me, sir?”
“Yes, sir. You, sir.”
The corners of Beecham’s lips turned up. “She calls me ‘Cecy,’ sir.”
“Cecy?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And your name is…?”
“Cecil.”
“I see.” The Earl studied the erect figure of his butler for a long moment. “Beecham,” he said softly, and very deliberately, “send John to me with a bottle as soon as may be, and let us hear no more of this nonsense. Do you take my meaning?”
“Certainly, sir,” said Beecham with well-bred stoicism, and silently left the room.
The Earl leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. Damn if the battle lines weren’t being drawn up already—his mother, his sister, and now his servants! This was Deirdre’s doing! How dare she calmly pack up her bits and pieces and take her leave of him when he was the injured party! How dare she look at him from the carriage window with those reproachful eyes of hers as if he were the one who should beg pardon! And to leave him alone, to fend off the barbs of three incensed women—well, that was the worst infamy of all! She knew, oh yes, she knew that he hadn’t wanted her to go! She was doing this to punish him. Well, she would catch cold at that, if that was her little game! He laughed, but even to his own ears, the sound had a hollow ring to it.
“Gareth!” said Mr. Guy Landron from the threshold. “So this is where you’ve been hiding yourself! God, you look awful! Did you sleep in those clothes?”
“No. I had my valet put them through the mangle ’cause I rather like the casual look!”
“Don’t cut up at me, old chap,” said Mr. Landron with perfect affability. “I’m not the one who deserted the sinking ship.”
The Earl leaned one disconsolate elbow on his desk, chin in hand. “Guy,” he said musingly, “d’you know that I call my valet ‘Edward’?”
“I believe so. Why?”
“All my valets have been called ‘Edward.’ Even my batmen in Spain were called ‘Edward.’”
“What a coincidence.”
“No, not really. The thing is, I always call them ‘Edward’ irregardless of the names they were christened with.”
“You do? Whatever for?”
“Because,” said Rathbourne reasonably, “it’s so much easier to remember their names that way.”
“Oh, I’m sure.”
“It’s been a family tradition for generations.”
“How odd!”
“D’you think it’s wrong?”
Mr. Landron suppressed a smile. “Let me put it this way. How many valets have you had?”
“Oodles! They never stay for more than a sixmonth or so.”
“I wonder why?”
The Earl caught the gleam of laughter in his friend’s eye and he said pettishly, “Oh I might have known that you would take her part. Everybody does.”
Mr. Landron said nothing, but he turned away to hide a broad smile. A lackey entered and approached the Earl with a fresh bottle of brandy on a silver tray.
Rathbourne noted that the tray was spotty and a frown gathered across his brow. “Well, put it down, man! I suppose I shall have to resign myself to…oh, never mind, just put it down.”
The first footman did as he was bid and waited patiently for his dismissal. Rathbourne eyed him speculatively. “Thank you…Jeremiah?” The lackey nodded, and smiled his pleasure. “Thank you, Jeremiah, that will be all.”
Mr. Landron looked to be surprised. When the footman had made his exit, he observed, “I thought his name was John.”
“Oh, never mind, it’s a long story. What day is it?”
“This is Thursday, a week to the day since Deirdre left.”
“I’m perfectly well aware of how long it has been since my wife deserted me,” said Rathbourne frigidly.
“Six days since the departure of Mrs. Dewinters,” went on Landron as though the Earl had not spoken, “and two days since the departure of your dear mama to visit her sister in Bath. I wonder who next will desert you?”
“Are you thinking of leaving my employ, Guy?” asked Rathbourne, his suspicions roused.
“Certainly not,” disclaimed Mr. Landron, “though I must admit, since Deirdre’s departure, it’s no pleasure being in Belmont—back to cold baths, inedible dinners, candles that drip and smoke atrociously. If one didn’t know better, one would think that the servants had it in for you, Gareth. I suggest that you stop playing the fool and go fetch her back.”
“Fetch her back? After all that she has done to me? You must be mad!”
“What has she done to you?”
Rathbourne rose and swayed slightly on his feet. “What has she done to me? She damn near killed me, that’s what!”
“I don’t believe it!”
“No, because you weren’t there. I tell you she pulled a pistol on me, and threatened to blow a hole in me.”
“She never would! If you don’t know that, you don’t know her at all.”
“Oh, that’s easy enough for you to say! You didn’t come under that cool, detached scrutiny, as though she were measuring me for a shroud. There wasn’t a tremor in her hand as she pointed that pistol at my heart.”
“Gareth, this is ridiculous. The girl saved your life! You forget that I came onto the ramparts just as she broke that lantern over Tony Cavanaugh’s back. It’s a miracle she didn’t set herself on fire as well.”
“Did I ask her to save my life? I did not! I told her to leave, but of course, she wouldn’t listen!”
“Gareth, that’s not fair! Deirdre wasn’t to know that I was keeping watch over you. When I heard that shot, I tell you, I thought I was too late. And this gammy leg of mine, well, I nearly was too late, wasn’t I?”
“No! It was Deirdre who forced Cavanaugh’s hand. I had no choice but to go for him then. Why can’t she do as she is told?”
Landron’s brows knit together. “Honestly, Gareth, I’m disgusted with you. You sound just like Deirdre’s brother! The two of you don’t know how fortunate you are to have won the love of such a woman. I wouldn’t mind being in your shoes.”
A sneer distorted the Earl’s handsome features. “Oh, it’s St. Jean she really loves. I come a poor second best.” It came to him then, that the two bottles of brandy he had consumed during a long night of dissipation had loosened his tongue.
Landron made a gesture of impatience. “I warned you from the very beginning how it was with Deirdre and her brother. She is used to being a mother to him. He doesn’t like it any better than you do. What she needs is a houseful of her own brats to mother. Well,” continued Landron, flashing the Earl a speculative look, “she’ll have at least one babe to look after.”
“She’ll have a damn sight more than that!” snapped Rathbourne.
A smile lit up Landron’s thin face. “Now you’re making sense.”
The Earl stared at his companion’s smiling face for a long, thoughtful moment, then he silently shook his head. He took a few unsteady paces toward the open door, stopped suddenly, and retraced his steps until he was eye to eye with Landron.
“I can forgive her everything,” he said on an aggrieved note, “except the episode with the pistol. And it’s no good saying that she wouldn’t have pulled the trigger. We’ll never know that for sure, will we? I shall never forgive her for that—never!”
He weaved toward the door. His hand closed around the lintel to steady himself and he turned back and said with exaggerated dignity, “Not unless she particularly asks me to.”
His eyes traveled to the windows and the bright sunlight that was streaming through. He noted dourly that Beecham had forgotten to close the curtains. He compressed his lips tightly together and said stiffly, and rather inconsequentially to Mr. Landron’s ears, “Jeremiah, Obadiah, and Bartholomew be damned!”
The blaze of sunlight in the courtyard blinded his eyes and he put his head down to avoid its penetrating glare. What he needed to clear his befuddled senses, he suddenly decided, was a brisk ride across hill and dale. There was no Deirdre to accompany him, but he would be very happy, so he assured himself, to make do with O’Toole. His spirits lifted a little. His groom was one worthy on whose loyalty he could always count.
As he made his way toward the gatehouse, his eyes lifted involuntarily to the North Tower and the ramparts where he had very nearly lost his Deirdre. He stilled as the memory of that night came rushing back. His mouth went dry and his heart began to race against his ribs.
That night, and its aftermath, had been worse than any in his five years as a soldier. To risk his own life was one thing, but for Deirdre to put herself in such jeopardy was something he would not tolerate. He would throttle her first before he would let her put him through an experience like that again!
He had managed to keep her name out of the inquest, nor had she or Armand been placed anywhere near the scene of the “accident” since he and Landron had spirited them away before anyone had thought to take a look on the battlements. The shot that had come from O’Toole’s pistol was easily accounted for. Rathbourne had explained to the coroner that he had fired it to call off the searchers when he found his young brother-in-law safe but decidedly the worse for drink in the castle keep. Young bucks, he had intimated confidentially, weren’t always wise enough to inform their elders of their movements and the ladies were always apt to panic when their fledglings left the roost. His own trifling wound he had dismissed as a prank that had gone wrong, or at the very worst, a minor misdemeanor—and he had no intention of bringing the unfortunate perpetrator to book for something that was very obviously an accident.
The coroner had brought in a verdict of accidental death, a foregone conclusion in light of the evidence that Tony Cavanaugh was used to enjoying a quiet smoke on the ramparts before turning in whenever he stayed at Belmont. It was surmised that he was trying to light his cigar from the lantern when it shattered and sprayed him with burning oil. And so the good name of Tony and all the Cavanaughs had been preserved.
It was after the inquest that Deirdre had quietly packed her bags and had taken off for Marcliff with Armand. He was willing to own that he had expected some kind of set-down for his coldness of manner in the few days since his cousin’s death, but that was because she had damn near murdered him—the husband who adored her—with that ugly brute of a pistol she had picked up at Waterloo.
He was on the point of moving off when his eye was caught by the sun’s reflection on some object that lay at the edge of the tower. It was Deirdre’s pistol. No one had given it a thought since the night of Cavanaugh’s death. He picked it up and remembered how calmly Deirdre had aimed it at his heart. God how that memory would haunt him to the end of his days. He clenched his teeth.
Would she or would she not have pulled the trigger if he had laid a hand on her brother? It was a question that tore at his insides, burned his mind, kept him sleepless at nights until he drowned his pain with the insensate solace that was to be found only from a bottle.
He extended his arm and aimed for the branch of a plane tree some twenty paces away. Would she, or wouldn’t she? His finger curled around the trigger. He cocked the pistol. Would she, or…? He pulled the trigger.
“Deirdre! Have you read the paper this morning?”
Deirdre turned from the upstairs drawing room window which gave a clear view of the driveway with its fine avenue of elms to the entrance of Marcliff, and she looked absently at her brother. “What paper?”
“The Times, of course,” replied Armand with a touch of asperity. He noted the dull eyes and the pallor of his sister’s cheeks and his voice gentled. “You’ll find this of interest. Listen, Deirdre:
“‘A private ceremony is to take place at St. James on September seventh, at which time The Right Honourable, Major the Earl of Rathbourne, is to be presented with a commemorative sword to mark his outstanding services to King and Country. Rathbourne, who has served with the 7th Hussars for the last five years in Europe, and was seconded to special duties in the war against Napoleon, is credited with running the counterespionage ring which effectively destroyed the reliability of French Intelligence in the months preceding Waterloo.
“‘Mrs. Maria Dewinters, well-known London actress, who worked closely with the Earl in Spain and latterly in Belgium, is to be thanked personally by the Prince Regent for services rendered to His Majesty.
“‘The Earl of Rathbourne, readers may remember, was married on June sixteenth, just two days before the glorious Battle of Waterloo, to the former Miss Deirdre Fenton. Mrs. Dewinters is to be married in Paris at the end of this month to Captain Roderick Ogilvie of the Horse Guards. An announcement of the engagement is to be found elsewhere in this edition of The Times.
“‘May the editors of this periodical be the first to congratulate…’”
“Let me see that,” exclaimed Deirdre, and she wrested the paper from Armand’s grasp. She read it through twice, then turned the pages impatiently till she found the page with the announcements of forthcoming marriages.
“God, I feel awful,” said Armand when Deirdre’s eyes finally looked up to meet his. “When I think of what I accused him of with Maria Dewinters in Paris!” He groaned and his head went down to his hands. “Tony Cavanaugh! How could I have let him dupe me like that…from the very beginning! Oh, I hope to God he’s roasting in hell!”
“Well, Gareth should have said something! How were we to know?”
“He wouldn’t though. A man like Rathbourne wouldn’t stoop to defend himself from a scurrilous attack on his character. I should have believed better of him! How could I have been so dense! Even in Brussels, I learned how highly the men of the 7th regard him!”
“What about his hatred of the French?”
“I got that from Tony Cavanaugh, as well as the story about the two young men he had hanged for desertion! Deserters are shot, not hanged. But Tony had a plausible explanation for everything.”
“Oh,” said Deirdre softly, and plumped herself down into a chair.
“I wonder,” said Armand musingly, “if Cavanaugh poisoned Rathbourne’s mind against me in the same way? That would explain some of his antipathy.”
“I think I’m to blame for the rest.”
“You?”
“He didn’t like the way I protected you.”
“No? Well neither do I, in retrospect. An occasional thrashing when I was a lad might have been the making of me.”
“Armand!” she protested.
“It’s true. If I’d had a man like Rathbourne for my guardian in-the last, oh, five years or so, I wouldn’t have pursued my own pleasures quite so hotly nor dragged you into dun territory with me.”
“Because you’d be terrified to face Rathbourne’s ire?”
He looked surprised. “Oh no. Because I’d be determined to win his good opinion.”
It was now Deirdre’s turn to be surprised. “Armand! Do you know what you are saying? It’s true that we’ve misjudged Rathbourne on many points, but I cannot forget, if you can, that if you had been a traitor, he would have arranged an accident for you—or so Tony Cavanaugh said, and Rathbourne did not deny it.”
“Oh that!” Armand said dismissively, as if the intelligence were of little consequence. “What else should he do with a traitor?”
Deirdre was appalled. “But you’re my brother!”
“All the more reason that I meet with an accident. D’you think Rathbourne would take the trouble to protect my good name if I weren’t your brother? I’m obliged to him for his consideration.”
“This is awful! I cannot believe that you really mean what you are saying.”
“There, there! I didn’t mean to upset you, but yes, I meant every word. And it’s too bad in you, Dee, if that’s what is keeping you apart from your husband. Try to remember his background. His work was in Intelligence. He’s spent more than five years fighting in a cause he believes in. What do you expect of him?”
Deirdre had no answer, but she reflected on Armand’s words for the rest of the morning. Armand donned his oldest clothes and went to help the stud groom in the stables, and Deirdre pored over her ledgers. She wondered how things were working out at Belmont and hoped that there had been no backsliding among the servants.
They were sitting down to a late luncheon when they heard the carriage wheels outside. Armand strode to the window and after a moment said tersely, “It’s Caro.”
Deirdre was only a minute or so behind Armand as he hastened from the room and descended the narrow paneled staircase. She followed him at leisure to the front vestibule, and was met by the sight of Caro in Armand’s arms, sobbing wildly, and a sheepish O’Toole, hat in hand, standing irresolute in the doorway. At the sight of Deirdre, a look of patent relief crossed his face.
“Oh Armand, don’t send me back to that horrid, horrid place,” sobbed Caro uncontrollably. “Please, oh please let me stay here with Deirdre. I’ll be good, I promise, and I’ll never ever disobey you again, word of honor!”
“There, there, darling,” said Armand soothingly, and then trenchantly, “If Rathbourne has been threatening you in any way, he’ll have me to answer to.”
So much, thought Deirdre with a touch of cynicism, for the short-lived desire to win his admired brother-in-law’s approval. “Armand, take Caro upstairs and offer her some refreshment,” she said a little dryly but with commendable composure, though she trembled to think what might happen if Rathbourne was hot on the heels of his runaway sister. “I’ll be there in a minute or so.”
As soon as they had turned the half landing, Deirdre turned on O’Toole. “What’s this about, O’Toole?”
He looked down at the toes of his black boots and said rather shamefaced, “It’s the master, Miss Deirdre. And sure if he hasna been in one of his black moods since you left us! There’s no reasoning with him. Most of the time he’s in his cups, and in a devil of a temper. He’s not eating; he doesn’t trouble to change his clothes or look to his appearance. He’s threatening to put the young miss in a convent. You’ll not be surprised to hear, will you, that I couldna turn away the lass when she begged me to bring her to you?”
“But her mother…”
“…has gone to Bath to get away from Belmont. There’s no one there for Lady Caro to confide in but the servants.”
“Oh dear. What’s to be done?”
“You couldna see your way to sending the young lady to her mother in Bath, could you, miss?”
“Will you take her, O’Toole?”
A look of regret crossed O’Toole’s face. “I’m sorry. Miss Deirdre. That I couldna do. The master would never forgive it. Perhaps it were better if someone else could do the honors? I took the precaution of bringing Lady Caro’s maid. She’s in the carriage. The coachmen are impatient to be off. You see,” he added by way of explanation, “they’re good lads but they know the Earl’s temper, and he’ll not be more than a couple of hours behind us.”
“But O’Toole, if he’s only an hour or two behind you, he’ll soon catch them up. D’you think it’s wise…”
O’Toole’s smile verged on the apologetic. “I was hoping, Miss Deirdre, that you could throw the master off the scent.”
“Throw him off the scent?” she echoed foolishly.
“Give him the wrong directions.”
“You mean, lie to my husband?” she asked on a note of alarm.
“Or, if you prefer, find some way to delay him. I think it would be very easy for you to do.”
Deirdre looked into the shrewd eyes of her husband’s groom. “Oh,” she said, and her eyes dropped. After an infinitesimal pause, her eyes lifted, and O’Toole observed with no little relief that their expression was speculative rather than hostile.
“I daresay I can think of some way to make him linger,” she said with a casualness that deceived no one. “He’s very fond of a game of cards.”
“A game of cards might just do the trick, Miss Deirdre,” intoned O’Toole musingly, “if, that is, the stakes were such as to interest his lordship. With a bit o’ luck, he might even be persuaded to stay the night.”
Deirdre colored slightly but said with a candor which completely disarmed the groom, “Much as I would wish it, that doesn’t seem likely. His skill is formidable. I could never hope to beat him.”
“Never beat the master? Never say so! I know a thing or two that will even up the odds. I’d be more than happy to show you, miss.”
The corners of Deirdre’s mouth lifted imperceptibly and she linked her arm with O’Toole’s. “What’s your Christian name?” she asked shyly, and she directed their steps to the kitchen door at the end of the hall.
“Patrick, miss. Why d’you want to know?”
“Pat! It has a nice ring to it. Naturally, I would never use it public. That would be an impertinence. But when there’s no one around to hear us, I don’t see why we can’t be the best of friends, do you?”
O’Toole’s eyes softened. This girl definitely had a way with her. No wonder his lordship was besotted. “It would make me very happy to hear my name on your lips,” he said with unaccustomed gallantry, “except,” he amended with a swift return of caution, “in the master’s hearing.”
“Oh! That goes without saying,” and with a confident swish of her skirts, Deirdre led the admiring groom to the best dinner he had consumed in a fortnight.
In the upstairs parlor, Armand wrested Lady Caro’s viselike grip from his neck and said irritably, “Caro! Behave yourself! Your conduct resembles more that of a lightskirt than the gently bred lady of quality that you are. Now sit down and compose yourself.”
He straightened his cravat and watched warily as the lady spun away from him and plumped herself down on a rose damask chair. She removed her high poke bonnet and a cascade of fire spilled in soft waves over her shoulders. He forced his breathing to a slower pace.
“Well, you should know,” she pouted.
“I beg your pardon?”
“About lightskirts.”
The wary expression in his eyes intensified. “I don’t think I follow.”
“Don’t you?” There was a martial glint in her eye. “You needn’t stand there like Innocence personified—or perhaps I should say, petrified. I’ve had it all explained to me. I think men are disgusting.” She averted her head, and Armand felt a shaft of pure fear penetrate his heart.
“Caro,” he cried, and in two swift strides, he was before her chair. He kneeled in front of her and possessed himself of her hands. “Caro, darling! That part of my life is over and done with. You cannot think that, loving you, other women would hold any interest for me.”
She sniffed, and made a halfhearted attempt to drag her hands from his fierce clasp.
“Caro!” he cried again, and gripped her chin in one hand, forcing her to look at him. “If I don’t have you, I have nothing. Why else am I doing all this?”
“All what?” she asked pettishly, though the passion in his voice had considerably mollified her.
“Why, reforming my life—making something of myself, taking a position at the Admiralty under Uncle John’s second cousin; forswearing gaming and duels and—”
“Lightskirts?” she supplied unhelpfully.
“I was about to say my boon companions,” he responded through stiff lips.
“Then lightskirts are still on the agenda?”
“Caro! You know that’s not what I meant.” There was a note of genuine anguish in his voice, and the lady relented somewhat on hearing it.
“But Armand, you needn’t go to all these extremes for me. Mama explained it all. When I come of age, I come into a considerable fortune, and Gareth has no control over it once I marry.”
“I wouldn’t touch a penny of it,” he exclaimed hotly. “Your mother explained it to you?” he asked when the full import of her words had penetrated his consciousness. “You can’t mean that she approves of our liaison?”
“Of course she does.” Caro looked at him in some surprise. “Why shouldn’t she?”
“Because,” he said morosely, “I have nothing to offer a girl like you.”
“That’s preposterous!”
“Oh?” He looked to be unconvinced.
She put out a tentative hand and touched his lips. “Mama explained that to me too,” she said softly. “You’d never know it, but she’s dreadfully romantic. Love! Mama believes in it. She says that we Cavanaughs are fated to love only once. We have a history, so it seems, of single-minded devotion to only one person. We’re like swans. When a Cavanaugh finds that his love is unrequited, the consequences are often tragic. I never knew before that my father pursued my mother for five years. She hated him. He finally abducted her and she was forced to marry him. It was only later that she came to love him.”
He took her hand and kissed it passionately. “The St. Jeans’ history is quite different. But I mean to change that.”
She said nothing, but there was a question in her eyes.
“I learned only recently that my father, poor wretch, deserted my mother when I was still in short coats. I don’t know why I wasn’t told sooner! It seems that he became infatuated with some mercenary vixen who bled him of every penny he had. When she left him, he was too ashamed to come back to us.”
“How did you find out?”
“Your brother told me just before we left Belmont.”
“Isn’t that just like Gareth! He had no right to—”
“He had every right,” Armand broke in impatiently. He ran a distracted hand through his hair. “I don’t think I shall ever understand the logic of women! Men are not little boys to be cosseted and protected at every turn. I expected better of Deirdre. If only I had known, I might have been a help to her. Instead of which…” He faltered to a halt, his eyes staring off into space.
“Have you spoken to her about it?”
Armand shook his head. “Not yet. I’m too angry, and she is too…well, low in spirits. The time is not right. One day though, we shall have to have this out.”
She laid a restraining hand on his sleeve. “Don’t be too hard on her. Who was there to advise her? Now that she has Gareth, things will be different.”
“I daresay, if ever they get together again, which doesn’t seem very likely at this point in time.”
“Nonsense. That’s why I’m here.”
“What?”
“To get them together again. It’s Mama’s dearest wish. She and O’Toole concocted this scheme before she removed to Bath. Gareth is bound to come after me. But I won’t be here. Mama said that you are to escort me to Bath so that Gareth can have a clear field with Deirdre.”
“I’ll do no such thing,” he stated emphatically. “I refuse to put your reputation at risk.”
Lady Caro’s eyes flashed with anger. “If you are afraid that I shall attack you in the closed carriage, let me assure you, sir, that my abigail will be there to protect you. Of course,” she grated through clenched teeth, “if I had been one of your lightskirts, I expect you would have got rid of my abigail to make mad, passionate love to me.”
“But Caro,” Armand soothed without much success, “you must see how, loving you as I do, I cannot possibly take advantage of you.”
Lady Caro’s brows drew together. She tossed her head. “I don’t think,” she said in withering accents, “that I shall ever understand the logic of men.”
Armand looked at her for a long, thoughtful moment. He sighed. He shook his head. Finally, he said in a resigned tone, “Have it your own way.” His arms went round her waist and he drew her forward till their bodies were locked together. “I disclaim any responsibility for what follows,” he warned her.
She tipped up her head till their lips were only inches apart. “I absolve you,” she murmured on an uneven breath.
Armand’s head descended, and the lady in his arms was very soon aware that a long engagement would not suit her at all. She wondered how soon the combined influence of three determined women could wear down the resolve of a brother who was known to be soft-hearted to a degree, in spite of appearances to the contrary.